


"The Anarchist Santas"

by unbelievable2



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 04:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13310739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: This is an AU story.Jim and Blair are drawn together while investigating a string of robberies





	"The Anarchist Santas"

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a series of drabbles in response to the lovely 'drabble days' challenge in 'The Sentinel Secret Santa' comm on LJ. The first 14 parts are drabbles of 500 words or less; the last two are longer as they were written for the Christmas Day Extravaganza, and were not restricted as to word-count. A list of the drabble prompts is given at the end of the fic.
> 
> The story is, if anything, mild pre-slash. However I have erred on the side of caution in the tagging.

Part 1

Simon Banks threw the crime-scene photos onto his desk with a snort of disgust. 

"Ellison, take a look at these," he said, waving his hand at them. Jim Ellison pushed himself away from the door-jamb he'd been propped up against and leant over the table, peering at the pictures.

"You know, Captain Banks," said the man who sat at the table, managing to look both embarrassed and seriously annoyed at the same time, "the last thing I want to do is offload this on your department. Boy, it sure rankles to be told to pass it on. But those are my orders from the Commissioner. My boys worked long and hard on this case. We're understaff and over-stretched, and the festive season don't make it any the easier. But I'm passing this case to you under duress."

"Understood, Captain Drew," replied Simon. He looked again at the photos that Jim was shuffling. "But I can see why the Commissioner wanted another view, so to speak."

"Yeah," sighed Drew, getting up. "And won't that look great on my record in Burglary. Well, I wish you better luck than we had. The files are all in your department now. Try not to call us, we've got enough to do." And with that he strode out of the room. Simon walked over and shut the door firmly. "Whatch'a think, Jim?"

Jim gestured to the photos. 

"No wonder the Commissioner's got his pantyhose in a twist. These guys are running rings around us. And they don’t win prizes for subtlety either."

"Get down there, Jim," Banks nodded at the door. "Take Brown with you. Give it a fresh look. I don’t need to tell you that the potential for embarrassment is all ours now." 

Jim gave him a sour look.

* * *

Down at the museum, the damage to the PD's reputation was even more apparent. In the main display hall, where the artefacts had been stored, five glass cases had been carefully dismantled, and on the wide, white wall behind them, someone had scrawled, in red aerosol paint: _'You guys call yourselves cops? You SLEIGH me!'_ Jim flinched as he read it, then walked up and peered at the paint, then at the cases; Henri gave him a pained look.

"Man, I am _so_ glad you brought me in on this case."

Two figures detached themselves from the huddle of museum staff, the older one hurrying over.

"Detectives Ellison and Brown? My name is Stoddard - Professor at Rainier." He indicated the young man following in his wake. "This is my colleague, Doctor Sandburg. He's one of the best experts we have in the artefacts stolen."

"Oh yeah?" replied Jim, absently, barely giving the kid a glance. "Doctor Stoddard, is there a reason the museum uses sugar crystals in its exhibits?"

Stoddard frowned but the kid's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

"Goddamit, Jim!" snapped Henri, "Someone just let the Press in!"

Part 2

"Jeeesus!" groaned Jim, opening one eye and flinching at even the dim light in the room. "What the hell happened?" He looked around for Henri, but saw only the long-haired university kid.

"Take it slow, Detective," smiled the young man. It was a pleasant smile, Jim realised; it seemed to ease the headache that remained at the backs of his eyes. "Here's some water."

Jim propped himself up against the wall. They were in a store-room of some kind, with stuff covered in dust-sheets all around them. He gulped from the proffered bottle. "What happened?" he repeated.

"We were talking and some journalists came in – they were supposed to be held outside. They started to take photos. One of them aimed the flash right at us –you got it straight in the face. You… ummm… you collapsed."

Jim put his head in his hands and groaned.

"Oh, man, not again!"

The young man gently pulled Jim's hands away from his face.

"Does this happen a lot?" he asked. Jim looked at him suspiciously, but there seemed to be only concern in his expression.

"Yeah, sometimes. Often. More than before. Sudden things like noises or lights or strong smells – I know it sounds stupid. Usually it gives me the mother and father of all headaches and I can barely function. Stress of the job, I guess. Man, what I wouldn't give for some peace from it all. But when it's really bad, well… people say I kind of pass out. Except it’s difficult to bring me round."

_Shit,_ he thought, _this could be the last straw for the PD._

He struggled to his feet.

"Look, Doctor,…."

"Sandburg."

"…Sandburg, thanks for your help. I'd better get back to everyone else. Carry on with the case."

"Ummm… they've all gone. I got you in here quickly while everyone was dealing with the Press, and said I was going to give you a detailed briefing about the artefacts. Your colleague seemed very happy to leave you."

"Thanks, Henri," muttered Jim.

"So," began the young man, "you asked why there were sugar crystals in the exhibits. As far as I know, there aren't any."

"I could smell them," said Jim, frowning at the recollection.

"Yeah," smiled Sandburg. "I guess you could. So I suggested to your colleague that the forensic team pay particular attention to the cases, and the paint. You were interested in all that."

"I'm a cop," snapped Jim. "I would point out that you aren’t, Doctor." Sandburg held up his hands.

"Not poaching, promise. But I think you're seeing, and smelling, things that other cops aren't. No-one from Burglary asked those questions this morning. And if they didn't, they might not brief their forensic team properly."

"Yeah, well, thanks for your help," said Jim, briskly. "So now maybe you can give me some gen about the artefacts? Valuable, I guess? Marketable? Professor Stoddard said you have all the intel."

"Oh, boy, I have _so_ much information for you," smiled Sandburg happily.

Part 3

Jim took a pull from the beer bottle and gazed out over Cascade. He had always loved this view from the Loft windows. This was the city of his birth and he felt an emotional bond with it, despite its crime and squalor and problems. There were so many other things about it that were important to him – the bay and the forests and the mountains behind. Even the hubbub of Cascade's many and varied inhabitants were worth celebration, despite the headaches they caused him, literally.

He'd always thought that was why he became a cop. He had chosen the Army to serve, but quite apart from the traumas he'd endured, that service had seemed somewhat remote; being a cop, though – here he felt he was making a real contribution.

But now, after what he'd heard tonight from Blair Sandburg – hours and hours of it when the guy never shut his mouth. But man, what he was saying! What Jim had heard, once he'd managed to get over his initial scepticism and the impulse to dump Sandburg on the sidewalk and high-tail it for home, had been a mixture of fascinating, bemusing and terrifying.

And yet it had also hit home. Now he thought back, it could explain so many things that had happened in his life. His Army experiences in Peru, as an inadvertent guest of the Chopec tribe for an extended period, had given him a deep appreciation of this latent gift within him – he had so much respect for that people and their wise men. 

So he was, what? _'Waking up'_ , Sandburg had called it. The headaches and weirdness could all be explained by extreme sensitivity, he'd said, which so far Jim hadn't got a handle on controlling. But Sandburg would help! This geeky kid – almost too pretty to be a guy, really – with a brain the size of Mount Rushmore, it would seem. Was he the person to guide Jim in this? Could Jim really give himself over to this man's hands, to trust him with teaching Jim how to manage these senses of his? Be a better cop, maybe even a better man?

_Sentinel._ He'd liked that word, whatever he'd said to Sandburg. It made him feel proud. He recalled something Sandburg – Blair - had said that night, about these senses waking up. In Buddhism, he'd explained, _Bodhi_ is the understanding possessed by a Buddha regarding the true nature of things. People usually translated it as _'enlightenment'_ , Blair had said, but really its literal meaning was closer to _"awakening"_. 

It was kinda frightening, thought Jim. And kinda exciting all at the same time. And with Blair Sandburg at his side, well….

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He lifted the receiver.

"Jim," barked Simon Banks. "You fit for duty? Brown said you were…"

"Henri talks too much," replied Jim quickly. "I'm just fine, thanks."

"Then get your ass down to Messenger's Gallery, Allenby and 3rd. I'll see you there. They've done it again."

Part 4

"So why is he here, again?"

Jim sighed.

"I told you, Simon. He's an anthropologist. He's helping me with the… health thing."

"He can help with that? An anthro…? Hey, I thought he was an archaeologist?"

"Yes," repeated Jim patiently, "and no, he's an anthropologist who knows an awful lot about the type of artefacts that got taken from the Museum."

Simon was still frowning.

"So he's a _doctor_ Doctor…? I mean, how else…?" Jim shook his head.

"No, Simon, but please, just trust me on this. I think it’s going to help. Hope it is, anyway."

"But, Jim," continued Simon, "he can't just tag along. He's not a cop, and…."

The door burst open, and Blair Sandburg appeared, wearing a smile that lit him up like a Christmas tree, and a ratty overcoat dusted with snow. Cold emanated from him.

"Boy, it is _freezing_ out there! Plenty of snow comin' down!" He beamed at everyone in the room and brandished a paper bag at them. "Have a cookie. They're from a tiny bakery down by Rainier; brown sugar, dried cranberries, orange peel and raisins. They really taste like Christmas!"

Before Simon could protest he had thrust the bag at Henri and Joel, who partook with alacrity. Simon eyed the bag suspiciously.

"Go on, Simon," grinned Blair.

"My name is _Captain_ Banks…" began Simon, but Blair just dumped a cookie on his desk, handed one to a smirking Jim, and went to lean over the table where papers on the _Anarchist Santas_ case were spread out. Jim sniffed at the cookie appreciatively.

"You know, kind of reminds me…" he began, but Blair was talking again.

"You see," Blair was gesturing with his own cookie, "I really don’t see what the anarchist angle is."

"A catchy name?" suggested Joel

"Stealing from the rich to give to the poor?" asked Henri.

"Good points, said Blair nodding, "but that's not really an anarchist thing, you know? I mean, anarchism, strictly speaking, is a belief in the abolition of all government and the organization of society on a voluntary, cooperative basis without recourse to force or compulsion. It comes from the Greek, meaning, 'without a chief'."

" _Unlike_ the PD," growled Simon, biting into his cookie. Bair rode right over him.

"I think we need to look more widely for a motive here…"

" _WE?_ " spluttered Simon, cookie crumbs showering from him. Jim took Blair's arm and steered him from the table.

"Chief, I appreciate everything you’re doing," he said quietly, "but we’re the cops, we know how these things work. So, leave it to us, okay?"

Blair cocked an eyebrow.

"So you can follow in Burglary's footsteps? Look how unimaginative they've been! And you’re doing just the same. Check all known fences, stake out the obvious… don’t you see, Jim? They wouldn't call themselves this, and leave taunting notes at each crime scene, unless they felt they had something to prove."

"Enough!" snapped Simon. "You have your stakeouts. Organise the team. They'll strike again."

Part 5

Snow, thought Jim, as Blair scribbled and muttered to himself, isn’t white. Or rather, it’s not just white but all colours too, full of reflections, full of air pockets that provide contrast to the gleaming ice. It falls so softly but yet it's so relentless, whirling, swirling around, so light. 

But it's loading weight onto everything it touches. Look at those cars, parked and undisturbed now it’s evening, outside the antiques warehouse, and so laden they look like snow-tanks, not cars. Or big, square, Styrofoam boxes, getting larger all the time. 

And if you look at the snowflakes, they kind of come _at_ you, come _for_ you, like they're attacking in the softest, gentlest way, coming to cover you up for ever in their white softness, and you can see every snowflake, and every pattern – boy, they're pretty - and every single crystal, and….

And……..

"Jim! C'mon, Jim, snap out of it. Listen to me, man, follow my voice. Hold on to my voice and follow it back to me. Okay? And now you're going to wake up. Jim? Jim!"

"What? Stop prodding me, Sandburg!"

"I'm not prodding you! I'm just trying to get you to come out of your… trance, I guess. You’d zoned out, man. What was it, the snowflakes?

"The crystals."

"Ah." Blair scribbled in his notebook.

"What're you writing?"

"Notes. To myself. About work. About you. Need to document what's going on. We need base data."

Jim grunted.

"Well, keep it to yourself, okay." Blair was looking at him. "What now?"

"You need a way of keeping yourself grounded, Jim. You get caught up in things like that, one day you'll be off with the fairies and get hit by a garbage truck.

"Thanks a bunch, Professor. What do you suggest?"

"Well, initially I can stick around to help you out of the trances. But you've got to establish some ground rules. Be wary of repetitive sights or sounds. Even more basic, you've got learn control, otherwise you're wide open to camera flashes, gunshots, you name it. Have you tried visualisation?"

"Huh?"

"Think of each sense separately. Give them a pressure gauge or something. Open the gauge when you need to use that sense, learn to turn it down to protect yourself. Wanna try that now? Say on the snowflakes…?"

"I'm working," said Jim sharply, but then softened his tone. "Later, okay? What were you muttering to yourself earlier? Something about commonality?"

"Oh yeah, I was working through my theory about the Santas. Jim, I think I've got it! Everyone thinks it's about the thing that's stolen."

"That's what robbery is generally about, Darwin."

"No, no! Don't you see? The Santas are Anarchists because they're rejecting something; an authority, an established order. So, what's a common element about these thefts that isn't about the articles themselves?"

Jim looked at him doubtfully.

"It's why they're there!" Blair was triumphant. "Every single item stolen was there because a bank was sponsoring it!"

Part 6

The head of the security detail at Civic Hall gave them an impatient look.

"Detective Ellison, I know what your Captain said, but the fact remains that my men have been all over this place, top to bottom. Everything checks out. There is no threat detected. There have been no warnings, there is nothing out of place, there is no one here that shouldn't be."

"They don’t give warnings," Jim pointed out. "Commander, we have no intention of spoiling today – the National Guard birthday parade is a great event. Our problem is that we're pretty sure our suspects are targeting things that have connections to the banking sector. The unveiling of the new statue today will sound pretty tempting to them. Most of the funding for it came from First North-Western & Pioneer, after all."

"I can get my detail to check…"

"Thanks, but no thanks, Commander. I would like your co-operation, but I'll carry on without it if necessary. These guys' stunts have become progressively more violent. The last time, two security guards were injured. There could be danger to life and limb here."

With that, Jim ducked under the tape marking the official area, Blair closely following.

"You should wait in the truck," muttered Jim.

"Yadda, yadda. And what happens if you zone on a fluttering banner. Or the snow starts again? Come on, what're we looking for?"

"Things that shouldn't be here," said Jim, with a pointed look at his companion.

"Like those Santas," replied Blair, determined not to be bested. He flung out an arm. "They’re all along the crowd-line."

"Rotarians, according to Henri. Handing out candy out the crowd. Supposed to be twelve of them." Jim turned his attention to the sound system at the back of the podium.

"Fourteen."

"What?" Jim's head shot up

"Fourteen. Count 'em."

"Jesus, they're here!"

"Hey!" Blair grabbed Jim's arm. "Don’t run off and scare them! Use your sight. Open up the gauge!"

Two Santas, one tall and bulky and the smaller dressed as Mrs Claus, in a mini-dress and black boots, were closest to the statue. Jim stared at them, feeling his vision reaching out like a telephoto lens. 

"Wires!" he gasped. "In that basket!"

Even as they watched, Mrs Claus sauntered a few steps back to the statue and placed the basket to one side. 

"Police!" shouted Jim, pulling out his gun "Hold it right there!"

Both Santas started running, the taller drawing a handgun and firing wildly at Jim, panicking the crowd. Jim ran, but was torn with indecision; he was closer to the basket than Henri, but the Santas were getting away.

"Go, Jim!" shouted Blair, already haring to the statue. Jim ran into the crowd, and threw out his sight to catch a glimpse of the Santas' departing sedan. He heard Blair shout "Get down!", and turned to see Blair hurling the basket into the nearby fountain. They both stared at it for a moment's pause, then the water erupted with a muffled _'boom'_.

Part 7

"So, come in, come in!" said Blair cheerfully, ushering Jim forwards into a dark space. Blair clicked some lights on, but that didn’t make the sight much better; one floor of a warehouse, draughty, cold and damp. Items of furniture huddled around a low-wattage heater.

"You get plenty of space for your dollar," Blair insisted, seeing Jim's doubtful look. "You don't have to take your coat off, though."

He went to the window where a small Menorah stood, today's candle waiting. Jim drew closer and saw the match flare, and then the candle illuminating the young man's face – warm light and shadow. Something tugged at Jim. He'd fought hard to avoid the complication of human relationships, but this one… it just seemed so easy. Blair turned to face him and their smiles met.

"Welcome," he said warmly. "I'm hardly devout, but I like some traditions, and especially Hanukkah. Tea?"

Jim nodded, still smiling. He followed Blair to the small kitchen area.

"I'm supposed to tear you a new one, you know," he said. "That was incredibly brave, what you did today. But foolish. You're not trained, Sandburg. You're not a cop. You could have got hurt. Simon's pretty pissed."

Blair shrugged.

"But I _didn’t_ get hurt. I just did something instinctive. I didn't know that thing was going to go _'Ka-boom'_. Anyway, you got a lead on the Santas, and the bomb didn’t hurt anyone. Joel said it was only tiny, anyway.

" _You_ could have been hurt," repeated Jim, with more emphasis than he meant.

"It was the right thing to do," said Blair firmly, and then ginned. "It was pretty damn' exciting, you know?"

"Still…"

"Forget it. Have a cookie."

Jim took one from the bag; a Christmas cookie, like before. It jogged his memory.

"The smell of this, Chief. There's something about it that reminds me of the sugar smell in the museum."

Blair raised an eyebrow.

"So, not simply sugars then. Pastry, cakes…?" Jim pulled out his phone.

"Joel, read me what forensics said about those first crime scenes. Yeah? Thanks. You got what? Hey, good work, my man. We'll … I mean, _I'll_ check it out."

Blair was staring. Jim grinned.

"Forensics said there were very minute traces of confectioners' sugar at all the heists, and Burglary wrote it off as the general public. Plus, Joel has got a lead off that partial plate I grabbed today. Rented by a Nick Clowes. Ran a bakery company that went belly-up."

"There's a factory?" asked Blair. "Then what are we waiting for?"

His cell-phone rang. Blair frowned at the number and answered.

"Hey, Eli!"

Stoddard, thought Jim. 

_"You were going to let me know, Blair,"_ said Stoddard. _"Visa and tickets are all waiting for you. The flight leaves in 24 hours."_

"Eli, I’ll call you later." Blair looked at Jim. "I guess you heard that? Time to set some eavesdropping boundaries, man."

"You're leaving?" asked Jim, suddenly reeling. Blair bit his lip.

"I hadn’t decided."

Part 8

The car was speeding, despite the slush and falling snow.

"You could have said something," Jim repeated, his jaw taut.

"I told you, I wasn't even sure I was going. This all happened before we met at the museum! To be honest, I’d forgotten about it. Eli's offered me this place on the expedition, even though it’s not really my specialist area. It’s nice to be asked and it'll look great on my _resumé_ , but…."

" _Resumé?_ " spat Jim. "And what's this work with me going to be? A sub-paragraph somewhere? I thought you were going to _help_ me!"

"Jim, you're not listening! I said I hadn't decided. I need to speak to Eli properly, not over the phone like that." Blair reached out to touch Jim's sleeve, but Jim flinched away.

"Well, when you've made that decision, _Doctor_ Sandburg, maybe you could drop me a memo."

"Jim, you're being ridiculous!"

"We talked!" Jim exploded now, banging his hand on the steering wheel. "We talked, about the senses. This is… was _important_ to me!"

"Jim, it's very important to me, too. It's just…"

The truck ground to a halt in the slush, skidding slightly. Jim was breathing heavily. At last he spoke.

"It’s fine, Sandburg. You do what you want. I guess I misunderstood some things. Right now, we’ve got to concentrate."

Blair sighed unhappily.

"Okay, the here and now. Look at the factory. Don't use all senses at once. Try hearing; Anyone there? Any warmth from human presence? Turn up that sight gauge as we walk in. Don’t stay like that all the time, though. Find your clues then shut down the gauges, so you're not wide open and overwhelmed.

"Stay in the truck," snapped Jim, getting out.

"No chance."

They moved steadily towards the old factory. It was boarded up, foreclosure notices hammered on its walls; it looked deserted. They squeezed through a gap in the fencing, and Jim indicated the slushy ground.

"Vehicles have been in here recently." Blair nodded.

Inside the factory, Blair stumbled in the dimness, but Jim strode out, his vision exceptional. He listened hard; there was a rustling sound – rats? Or someone's harsh breathing? He strained to hear more.

A man in a Santa costume appeared from the gloom behind some old machinery, gun in hand. A shot rang out, echoing around the empty factory. Jim dropped to his knees, clutching his ears.

"Stop! Police!" yelled Blair, running after the Santa, who was clambering up onto the crates, seemingly making for a staircase. Jim, struggling to his feet, looked up to see the man miss his step and, with a shout, tumble from the top of the crates to the concrete factory floor.

"Nick!" There was a shrill cry in his ear, and a flash of red costume. Mrs Claus lashed out with her shiny black boot and Jim went down again, the world full of noise and tumult. Blair was running this way and that in confusion.

"Jim, Jim! She's getting away!"

Part 9

Blair pushed his way through the throng of people crammed into Major Crime department. There was a lot of laughter and back-slapping going on, as well as the usual Christmas jollity. He was offered a platter of food by one cheery detective, and a plastic cup of something fruity (and, from the smell of it, seriously alcoholic) was thrust into his hand by another, who looked like he'd already imbibed quite a lot of the stuff himself. Henri Brown waved at him.

"Great work, Blair! You got the sonfabitch!" Some other detectives turned to look, and raised their plastic cups to him in a toast as well. He ducked his head in embarrassment, forcing a smile.

"Have you seen Jim?" he asked Henri. "I need to talk to him. He rushed off from the factory earlier."

"Oh, he's here somewhere," said Henri, breezily. "He doesn't much care for departmental Holiday Parties, but he puts up with then. And anyway, Simon will have wanted a report on the Anarchist Santa guy. And congratulate Jim, too – good bust!"

"We only got one of them," Blair pointed out, and struggled on through the people, finally finding Jim standing on his own at one of the big windows, his expression unreadable. Jim looked up and stared straight at Blair, then pushed himself away from the window-ledge and strode over.

"Jim, I waited for you…" began Blair, but Jim just took him by the arm and pushed him out through the mass of people, nodding tightly at colleagues' well-wishes, until they stood in the relatively empty corridor.

"Jim, I need to say something…" Jim held up his hand warningly.

"No, Sandburg. You talk a lot. Too much. It's time for me to get some words out. Now, I'm grateful for your assistance on this case. I can't deny that the ideas you had were really helpful."

Blair opened his mouth, then shut it again. Jim ploughed on.

"But on the other thing. This thing you wanted to help me with. That's over, okay? Maybe I had crossed wires, maybe I misunderstood you, but I thought we were talking about a commitment. I see you're not able to give that, so this association – you and me – it ends right now. Goodbye, and good luck with everything."

And with that, Jim turned to go. Blair grabbed his arm.

"Wait! Jim, you need to listen to me! I didn’t deliberately mislead you. I genuinely forgot. It was so great working with you, man, I clean forgot I had a decision to make."

"Whatever," snapped Jim, shaking his arm away.

"But I need to tell you, Jim, about that decision. I need to tell you…"

"And I don’t need to hear, okay?"

Blair's dismay switched to straightforward anger.

"You can't even spare a second to hear me out? You've made up your mind, just like that? You're a pig-headed, self-destructive bastard, you know that?"

"Have a good life, Chief," said Jim coldly, then he was gone.

Part 10

There was a carol concert in the square outside City Hall. The singing and the military band would have made it a cheerful atmosphere, as would have the glittering lights reflecting in the large, shiny Christmas baubles hanging from the Christmas trees on the steps of City Hall, if Blair had been in the mood to enjoy such things. But he wasn't.

After the flare of anger at Jim's behaviour had subsided, he was left with the dull ache of disappointment and dejection. He kept going over in his mind what had happened. How could he have got it so wrong?

Because Jim had seemed down with the whole idea. Maybe a little hesitant on the more personal things, like feelings and emotions and how they might factor into the whole Sentinel experience, but overall he was pleased. Surely he was pleased? He'd seemed as enthusiastic as Blair himself.

And then the work, the police work. Wow, what a blast that was! So exciting, that whole adrenalin rush, but also a real satisfaction to solving the problems of crime and its detection. Boy, were there anthropological papers waiting to be written on all that!

But how the hell had he forgotten about Eli? Oh god, he had let Eli down as well, now. It had been a simple oversight! And he had never said to Eli that he was definitely… but then he'd never said to Jim that he'd been…. Oh god, what a mess!

And Jim had been so very angry at the factory. It didn't matter how many times Blair had pointed out 'but you kept the gauges open, Jim!'. Jim just wouldn't listen. And Jim didn't realise he was at the start of a very long learning curve; dammit, they both were! How could he write it all off just like that? There was so much potential here!

He had just left Blair standing there, after the Santa guy had been carted off in an ambulance. Jim was gone. Blair kept waiting for him to come back, but he never did. There were only some uniformed officers left, carrying out an inventory of all the stolen goods they'd found there. Blair had had to get a bus back to retrieve his car, make his call, and then try to track Jim down at the PD.

And now Blair was looking at burnt bridges on either side. He'd rejected one opportunity, only to find himself rejected on the other. After the elation of the past few days, finding someone like Jim… he didn't think he'd ever felt so low.

He reached the Volvo, which was sitting askew to the kerb in a quiet side street where he'd parked in a hurry. In a hurry to get to Jim. As he opened the rear door, something clicked against his ear; something cold and metallic. He'd already frozen before a female voice said:

"Freeze!" Blair's eyes opened wide.

"Mrs Claus?"

The red-suited lady smiled sweetly.

"Call me Brenda."

Part 11

"Jim? I thought you’d left!" Simon Banks pushed his way through the throng still celebrating in the department, and waved a beer bottle in front of Jim's nose. "Where's your young shadow?"

Jim took the bottle with a nod. Thankfully, Banks didn’t wait for a reply.

"You know, he's an original," he continued. "I've never met anyone like him. And that stunt at the National Guard Parade? Boy, the kid's got balls. Guess what? The Commissioner has had the Mayor asking whether Sandburg can get a medal! Ain't that a hoot?" Simon slapped Jim's shoulder.

"Hilarious," agreed Jim, his jaw taut.

"And," continued Banks, somewhat more loquacious and confiding than usual after an evening at the party, "though I was sceptical before – _highly_ sceptical, I might add – I've been really impressed by that young man. He's certainly brought you out of your shell, Jim. Whatever he's doing to help that _problem_ of yours, it seems to be working."

And with that Banks swung away to greet another colleague. Jim turned on his heel, desperate to leave, only to find a middle-aged woman patiently waiting for him.

"Detective Ellison? My name's Laura Stoddard, Eli's wife."

Jim managed a polite nod and a handshake. Mrs Stoddard was clutching a carrier bag and she gestured with it.

"I have something for Blair. Do you know where he is?"

Jim looked at her in bemusement. She was smiling kindly at him.

"You see, Eli left him a Christmas gift. He's very fond of Blair. More a father-figure than a mentor, you know? Eli had planned to give Blair his gift when they were at the dig. But since Blair decided not to go, and Eli had to hot-foot it to the airport for the flight, he asked me to get it to Blair here. Or maybe I could give it to you, and you could pass it on?"

Jim felt like the ground was swaying under his feet.

"What do you mean, Eli won't see him? Blair was going to Java with your husband. He told me the flight was late tonight. I thought…"

"Oh no," broke in Laura Stoddard, "he spoke to Eli this afternoon to tell him he'd changed his mind. I'm surprised he hasn’t told you that already."

"I haven't really seen him today," lied Jim.

"Oh." Laura Stoddard was frowning. Then she handed to bag to Jim. "Well, he's probably chasing up this new development he's found. Blair's seemed so lost and dejected recently. He's been searching for something in his studies, but he'd almost given up hope of ever finding it. My husband thought a new adventure might cheer him up a bit. But apparently he's found his Holy Grail, so Eli said!" She laughed and held out her hand again to Jim.

"Well, I need to be going. They’ve forecast more snow for tonight, and I must get home. Thankfully Eli's flight is from Seattle. The weather's not quite as bad there. Merry Christmas, Detective."

Part 12

The marks on the road where the Volvo had left the hardtop and had plummeted onto the rocks along the coast road had been covered up hours ago by the snow. The Volvo itself was still on a flatbed truck in the police pound, snow-bound, while it awaited examination. All that had been recovered from the scene had been a water-logged backpack. The Coastguard couldn't find a body, though they'd looked until the blizzard had got too bad.

Jim had looked, too; opening up the gauges and straining his eyes into the whiteness to try to find a shape on the rocks or in the water. And he'd driven up and down the coast road, while it was still passable, trying to find witnesses. But no one had seen the car go over. Treacherous weather, said the traffic cops, matter-of-factly; so easy to lose sight of the road and miscalculate.

In the cold, muffled whiteness of a snowbound Cascade, St Xavier's was a haven of warmth and light. He had just parked and walked in, his brain part-frozen, his limbs numb, and he had sat there for the last few hours, just watching the people come and go; some to pray, some to confess, some just to get out of the cold.

"Is there something I can do for you, son," said a gentle voice, and Jim looked up to see the priest – a man not much older than himself – standing in front of him. Without waiting for an answer, the man sat down next to Jim.

"You’re a policeman," said the priest. At Jim's sharp look, the priest smiled. "Oh, I can see the gold badge on your belt. You're a true servant of your fellow man."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Father," muttered Jim.

"I can see why, with a job like yours, you might find the need for the solace of our church," continued the priest. "You've not been to St Xavier's before, I'm thinking?"

"I'm very much lapsed, Father, so don't think I'm a new body for your congregation" replied Jim, sharply. Then, after a moment, he continued, his voice softer. "I don't really know why I felt the need to be here. I've been looking for someone, but I can't find them."

"Put your faith in God to help."

"God won't be interested this one, Father. There's not much that can be done. I let someone down. Someone who reached out in friendship, and with generosity and kindness. I slapped him down. I refused to listen to what he was telling me, and I sent him away. And now he's dead."

The priest fell silent, then clasped Jim's arm.

"Then this is why you are here. It's Solstice Eve, and we will be holding our Longest Night vigil, tonight. It's where we try to give strength against darkness and the grief of loss."

"Jim?" Henri hurried down the aisle. "I only saw your truck by chance! Where the hell… sorry, Father. Jim, Brenda Clowes has Sandburg!"

Part 13

"I apologise for the chains," smiled Brenda Clowes. "We used them on the off-road bikes, once upon a time, when we still had them." Her sharp expression turned wistful. "Fun times..."

Blair twisted to look at her, rattling the chains that attached him to the cold radiator. She was a pretty woman, though her face was lined with stress and grief. But there was something about her eyes, something he'd seen when she cornered him at the car. It had made him play along and not try any clever stunt to escape. Because this was a woman on the edge who was likely to do anything, and maybe not even realise she was doing it.

"There's still time," he repeated, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. "I know you put those two security guards in hospital with fumes inhalation, but you're still at a point where the PD will deal leniently, I'm sure." Mentally, he was crossing his fingers. He had no idea of Simon Banks' view of justice in this case. "Just don’t do anything… more serious. And after all, there are circumstances…"

"Yeah, damn right, there are _circumstances_ ," snapped Brenda, waving the gun at him in her agitation. "How would you like your whole life ripped up, on the whim of some bank clerk? A healthy business, brought to its knees! We lost our home, our future, our dignity! But it wasn't just us – we had employees there. People who'd been with us since the start. We were all close friends. They were _family_ to us, and we _treated_ them as family. And they had homes and mortgages, too. So what happened? They all got destroyed along with us!"

She stalked towards Blair and loomed over him, the gun wavering in front of his face with every shaky breath she took.

"Not just First North-Western, but all those parasites – they have to pay! Take from them like they took from us. Make them look fools and incompetent. Make them hurt!"

"You're going to hurt even more people in this process, Brenda…" began Blair.

"You think I care? Nick's in a coma, so the TV says. May never recover. Because you guys were chasing him. Maybe I've lost him, too, now. Do you think I _care_ what happens to anyone else?"

She drew upright, and turned away to pick up a heavy parka.

"I'll be leaving you here, Blair. If your friends at the PD play ball, I'll get Nick back and you'll go free. If they don't, the head honcho at First North-Western and a load of his pals will get their Christmases ruined, like everyone else they've shafted." She turned to leave; Blair's panic finally surfaced.

"Brenda, please, don’t leave me here today! Look at the weather! This place is freezing, there's no heat, there's no light, no food… They may not find me, Brenda! This cold is deadly!"

Brenda smiled back at him as she closed the door.

"Ask someone who's interested, honey."

Part 14

"Well, this is a fine Christmas Eve we're having, and no mistake," said Simon Banks with heavy irony, replacing the telephone receiver. "The Commissioner is still unwilling to make a deal with Brenda Clowes," 

Jim, who had heard every word of the conversation with barely an effort, nodded, his jaw tight.

"But at least we know Sandburg must be still alive, right?" continued Simon. "That buys us some time."

"Depends if we can find Brenda Clowes before she tries anything else," growled Jim. "Otherwise, we have no idea where she might be holding Sandburg."

"I've got Joel doing research on the Clowes background, and Henri's tracking, as far as we can, their movements during the period of the heists. We'll get a clue from that."

"Yeah, sure," huffed Jim, "if she's sticking to their old haunts. Would you?" Simon nodded unhappily.

"Yeah, I take your point. She's a sharp cookie. Her husband might have been the baker, but she has all the tech skills. An IT wizard, so Joel tells me. That’s how they got through the alarm systems so easily."

"We need to hope she's planning to make another move on the banks," said Jim, passing to the big table where a motley collection of things was lying – a battered backpack, pens and pencils, a notebook with its edges curled upwards, a wallet. He picked up the notebook and started flicking through. "Sandburg had a whole list of possibilities written down."

"Those notes are ruined, Jim. The seawater… But the guys are going through all the social diaries for the city. Trouble is, there's a hell of a lot happening in the Christmas period, and especially today."

"Like you said, she's smart," said Jim thoughtfully, still leafing through the notebook. "I'm betting it won't be obvious, whatever the next thing is." His fingers ran through the pages until he found one where there seemed to be more ink than most, with a regular pattern to the smudges on the page and, to his touch, some noticeable indentations on the once-waterlogged paper.

The sound of Simon's voice faded as Jim concentrated. He thought about Sandburg's teaching and closed his eyes, opening up his touch gauge as he did so. Against the dark of his eyelids, lights sparked that took the form of words. The process, and the revelation, was such a shock that he dropped the book. Simon looked up in surprise.

"Jim, you okay?"

"Her husband's hurt and under arrest, she's kidnapped somebody; everything's building to a crescendo."

"Yeah, but…"

"It'll be something special. And less obvious than the others. Sandburg's circled one event in the notebook."

"You mean, you can…?" Jim waved his hand impatiently.

"No time for that, Simon. There's a Christmas Eve concert at Symphony Hall tonight. It's not sponsored by a bank, or anything like that, but Blair's written _GUESTLIST_ in capitals…"

Simon leapt to his feet and bellowed out of the door.

"Joel! Who’s going to Symphony Hall tonight?"

Part 15

It was close to 7pm and the snow was increasing as the Major Crime cars – without lights or sirens -drew up to Symphony Hall. 

Since Brenda Clowes' first contact, to demand charges against her husband be dropped in return for Sandburg's release, Simon had been frustrated by the incompetence of the Mayor's Office in the art of negotiation, and Jim had worn himself and everyone else out in a relentless search of all premises once owned, used or even simply visited by Mr and Mrs Clowes, including their repossessed home and the houses of their former employees. And everywhere he had drawn a blank. 

Both men were relieved to be finally doing something constructive, the lead provided by Sandburg's jotted musings in his notebook having given them focus. While Jim had driven, Simon had been continuously on his cell-phone, either coordinating the PD presence or getting updates from the Mayor's Office and others about the arrangements for that evening's concert. But they weren’t prepared for the development with which the Symphony Hall staffer greeted them.

"We've just cancelled the concert. The Director says the weather is far too bad."

"What?" yelled Simon and Jim, in appalled unison. The staffer – a young girl – pulled her scarf tighter around her face.

"There were very low numbers in the auditorium. And half the Orchestra is stranded in the suburbs still. If we went ahead, Director Hardy felt that people would be exposed to risk and that wouldn't be good for us at CSH…" Simon held up his hand to interrupt her.

"Young lady, the Director had been expressly told by the Mayor's Office that all the arrangements for tonight should go right ahead. We're pursuing a dangerous felon, here!"

"Too late for all this, Simon," broke in Jim. He turned to the girl. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Only in the last few minutes," she replied, her eyes wide with apprehension. "I'm sorry, no one told me about holding people back…"

"Which exits?" barked Jim, already scanning the frontage of Symphony Hall as best he could in the falling snow.

"Oh, we're bringing them out the front door. The plaza is clearer of snow than around the rear exits."

"And your VIP guests tonight?" asked Simon. "Were they in the auditorium as well?"

"They were still at the Director's Meet-and-Greet," replied the girl, looking bemused by the interrogation. "But they’re being brought down and they’ll be held in the lobby until their cars are brought round…" Jim turned to Simon, and spoke low and urgently.

"She's lost her chance to make a move in the auditorium, but those bank executives are going to be sitting ducks, all waiting in a bunch. Tell the guys to move them back, but quietly. No panic. We can't rouse her suspicions. Look, the audience is coming out right now. She’ll be there, and I'm going to look for her.

And with that, he made off across the plaza, hearing Simon already shouting into his cell-phone.

* * *

"Hey! Hey! Anyone out there? Anyone? Help! Help!"

Nothing; just the muffled buffeting of the snow-laden wind against the cabin windows. Brenda Clowes had left him no light, but the whiteness that blanketed everywhere outside filled the room with a blue glow, so he wasn’t in complete darkness. However, he did lack any form of protection against the bitter cold seeping in through every pore of the wood cabin. His old overcoat just about coped with winter in the city, but in the lower temperatures out here – wherever _here_ was - it was no match for the steadily falling temperature.

The past three days, since Brenda had bushwhacked him, had been a surreal experience for Blair, not to mention deeply worrying and unpleasant. Having got him, Brenda didn’t seem to have any real plans for what to do with him. Blair mentally kicked himself continually for not having fought back at the very start. But she was nothing like he had dealt with before.

Oh, he had faced down unhappy tribes-people, complete with spears they were very willing to use, and aggressive cops in Central America, and unsavoury people demanding money with menaces at various study sites in numerous parts of the globe. But he had never met the kind of unhinged unpredictability that radiated from Brenda Clowes. The moment he had allowed that to faze him, and baulked from confronting her waving gun head-on, he had been lost. And once the handcuffs were on, and she had delivered a dazing blow on the head for good measure before stuffing him into first the trunk of the Volvo, thence into the backseat of an old saloon car, he found there was truly little he could do. His only chance, he realised, was to try to reason with her. And that turned out to be a hopeless task.

Oh, she had fed him – the same sort of sandwiches and mugs of tea or coffee she had been making for herself. The Clowes' had clearly been using this cabin as their base all along and so there seemed to be ample provisions. Moreover the fireplace heated a back-boiler which in turned sent heated water all round the cabin through the radiators. It wasn't a hugely efficient system, but while Brenda burned logs in the fireplace, Blair had been pretty warm. This was primarily because he was attached firmly one of the radiators; under the pressure of Brenda's wavering gun, Blair had looped the metal security chains around himself and then around the radiator, so that when Brenda topped it all off with a padlock, he was effectively trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey. 

A bucket had been provided for Blair's _comfort_ , so to speak. This had seemed to embarrass Brenda as much as it embarrassed Blair, but his blushes were mainly spared as he didn’t see much of her; she spent most of her time sitting in the bedroom which adjoined the living area. Blair had mainly just tried to talk to her, reason with her, convince her to turn herself in before anything more serious happened. But, glued as she was to the battery-powered radio, and reports of her husband's condition and of the City's abject failure to apprehend the missing Anarchist Santa, he made no headway.

When he realised she was leaving him with neither light nor heat, and with the blizzard worsening outside, he had felt panic rising. The sound of the cabin door slamming behind her plunged him into near hysteria.

After several minutes of mindless yelling and rattling his chains against the cold radiator, he forced himself to stop, listening to his own breathing finally slow to a normal rate in the silence of the cabin. _Stay calm_ , he told himself. _They'll find you. They'll be waiting for Brenda to make a move and then they’ll get the location from her_. Jim Ellison might be an arrogant and unthinking sonofabitch, but he was a consummate cop – Blair was sure of that. Whatever Jim felt about Blair and his supposed 'betrayal', the man would move heaven and earth to find him again. 

Because he was one of Jim's tribe, thought Blair, nodding to himself. Jim was the Sentinel for the tribe of Cascade and, as a citizen of Cascade, Blair was Jim's responsibility, whether Jim liked Blair or not. It was a duty he couldn't shirk.

Blair smiled wryly to himself. What a wasted opportunity this had been! If only they could have talked to each other. If only Blair had been able to get his priorities right and tell Jim upfront of his conflicting plans; they might have worked something out.

If only Jim could have taken his head out of his ass and take time to listen, and given the benefit of the doubt instead of rejecting it all - lock, stock and barrel. Were they really that mismatched? He hadn't thought so. When they were working together, it had felt like being with the other half of himself, a profoundly satisfying experience.

Maybe Jim would let Blair talk, when he found him? Maybe there was a chance to start over? Blair hoped for that with all his might. But then he thought about his need to prioritise, and so first of all he hoped with all his might that Jim Ellison would walk through the door with some bolt-cutters.

_In the meantime,_ thought Blair, _I'm gonna make some noise. Every fifteen minutes, as well as I can judge, I'm gonna holler for help and rattle my chains. Just in case…._

* * *

The crowd leaving Symphony Hall was still milling around the Plaza. Jim did his utmost of make out a likely suspect amongst all the people. But in their winter coats and hats, people's features were difficult to determine. The falling snowflakes obscured even more.

Jim clenched his fists in concentration, and tried to think of what Blair might say. Just focusing on his sight gauge was a good start, Jim realised, and he tried to relax, letting his sight reach out. A woman who could be in disguise wasn’t an easy target. But this woman had a purpose there, Jim reasoned, and that would make her behaviour different to that of the other people around. So why not make that behaviour more visible? He pulled out his cell-phone.

"Simon? Get Henri and a few of the gang to take the overcoats of some of the VIPs – be discreet about it, huh? And then a few of them can walk to the limos…"

It was all that was necessary. The moment her prey came into sight, Brenda Clowes made her move, stepping out from a line of people and moving to take a gun from inside her coat. So focussed was she on the bogus VIPs, she didn't notice Jim Ellison's heading rush at her; before she could fire, Jim had knocked the gun from her hand, and they had both tumbled to the snowy flagstones.

A short time later, Brenda Clowes, cuffed and tearful but with eyes still blazing with hate, was ready to be transported back to the PD. Simon and Jim took her to one side.

"Mrs Clowes," said Simon, "it's time to stop this charade. Too many people have got hurt, including your husband. He's recovering well, and we can take you to him. But I need to know the whereabouts of Dr Sandburg." Mrs Clowes sneered at him.

"You think I'm going to co-operate now? Now everything's lost? Throw the book at me, I don't care." Jim felt like shaking her till her teeth rattled, but he tried to be as calm as he could.

"If Dr Sandburg is in danger, we need to know. Mrs Clowes, please don't let anyone else suffer in this sad story. Please don't risk his life. He's a good man. Just tell us where he is." Jim couldn't stop himself reaching out to the woman, grasping her arms and staring pleadingly into her face. Her remoteness and alienation scared him; he had no sense of any compassion within her that would allow her to make Sandburg's rescue a priority. The awful thought struck him that maybe that was because Blair was already dead.

But her hard expression seemed to falter, so Jim kept talking.

"I think your husband is a good man, too. You were both screwed over by the banks and I can understand your anger and your pain. To see your life in ruins… it's unbearable. But please, please, don’t waste another life to spite the bankers. They don’t care anyway. That isn't the way to get them. Lawyers and court actions are the only way to do that. Blair Sandburg is a fine and principled young man who tries to help people. I'll bet he talked to you a whole lot these past days about how you could make a good case for redress. He'll be on your side in this - please be on his!"

There was a long pause, and then Brenda Clowes sighed; all the fight seemed to go out of her. When she spoke, her voice was tired.

"Give me a pen and paper."

Part 16

Jim stared at the written address in disbelief.

"Why didn’t we check this?" he asked Simon, who in turn looked at Joel Taggert.

"No cause to," said Joel defensively. "That property has nothing to do with the Clowes'. We would have been there if it had." Brenda Clowes shrugged.

"It's not our cabin. It belongs to my godmother… belonged. She died in the summer and her family are still debating her Will. No one wanted to use it, so we knew it would be a good place to hide out."

"And it’s on the coast road," said Jim, "what, about four miles beyond where Blair's car went into the ocean? That's what I can smell on you," he suddenly exclaimed – Brenda Clowes looked shocked at the remark, for all her exhaustion – "I can smell resin and woodsmoke, from the forest there, and salt from the sea spray." He looked at Simon and Joel for corroboration, but all he got were somewhat doubtful looks, so he brushed his thought aside.

"Right," he said, "I'm going down there now."

"Jim," protested Simon, "the blizzard's getting worse! They won't be ploughing that road today, not enough folks live down there. You'll never get there." Jim turned back to Brenda Clowes.

"And you say he has no heating? No food, no drink?" Brenda shook her head, now looking abject. "Well, then, there's no alternative, is there? I've got a survival kit in the truck, and some rations."

"Jim, Jim! Leave it to Search and Rescue!" pleaded Simon. Jim shook his head violently.

"Those guys have too much on their plate right now. They won't have the resources to get down to the coastal forest, and quickly."

"Ah, Jim's right, Simon," put in Joel. "It came over the radio while we were driving down here. Two Old Folks' Homes in North Cascade are being evacuated – they've no power. And there's been another pile-up on the 405. Emergency Services are having to pull volunteers in to help, now."

"Okay," said Simon heavily, "but someone needs to go with you…" Jim was already hurrying back to the truck.

"No time!" he shouted. "Send a team when the roads are clear. I'll phone you when I can." He swung into the driver's seat of the truck and revved the engine. "I got him into this," he muttered to himself, "so it’s up to me to get him out."

* * *

The coastal road was far worse than expected. The snow had been falling more heavily outside the city, and consequently was lying that much deeper on the road. Jim engaged the off-road gears and ploughed on – literally in some places. No other vehicles were moving, though there were some - clearly abandoned - sitting by what was presumably the side of the road; there was no real way of telling where the hardtop stopped and the rough grass and rock started. Through a thickening cloud of falling snowflakes, the truck's lights dimly pinpointed the rocks where they'd found the Volvo.

_Only a few more miles_ , he thought grimly. Driving the truck in such bad conditions was difficult enough, but the concentration it took to see a way through the swirling flakes and spot the location of the cabin, yet not lose himself in a feared zone, was a trial that made his head pound. As he crunched and slithered his way along another mile or so of road, progress painfully slow, the feeling of dread and disaster grew in his stomach.

"Okay, Simon," he muttered to his absent friend "I admit, you were right about this…"

And then he couldn't go any further. Wind had banked the snow into a huge drift that stretched high in front of him and on each side. Impulsively he turned the wheel and drove off the road itself, only to come to a solid halt, mere yards further on. Reverse gear did nothing to shift the truck, which sat there, wheels spinning. Jim thumped the steering wheel with his hands, in anger. Then he pulled up the hood of his jacket, jumped out of the truck and retrieved his rucksack with the thermal blankets, energy bars and water bottles. He swung the pack onto his shoulders and trudged up the snow-pile in front of him.

At the top, he breathed in the icy air deeply, and put all his energy into surveying what lay in front of him – a vast white expanse, rising up to a snow-covered pine forest on his left and sweeping down to the restless sea on his right. He knew the cabin was located up a short track, not too far into the forest, but there was nothing in the scene he surveyed, even with his sight gauge opened up as far as he dared, which allowed him to discern anything that looked like habitation. He took another deep breath, stumbled down from the snow-drift and started trudging onwards, towards where his map, and some internal direction-finder, told him he would find Blair Sandburg.

It was desperately hard work. Time and again he fell in deep drifts of snow, and the rucksack made getting back on his feet difficult. Heading for the treeline, he was necessarily moving uphill, and the gradient increased the challenge. The snow was, if anything, falling more thickly, and his vision was limited to mere feet in front of him; his flashlight was little help in the swirling obscurity.

Then, having crested a ridge, he stumbled and fell again, rolling over and over in the snow. When he struggled to his feet, the flashlight was gone. He gazed around him; he knew he was at the edge of the pines, and the sea was at his back, but otherwise he had no idea where he was. The truck was invisible, lost under piles of snow; he couldn't have guessed whether it was forty yards or forty miles away. He felt completely disoriented, with no idea which way to move – further up into the forest, or forward along the tree line?

He started forward, and fell almost immediately. He lay in the snow, listening to his own harsh breathing, and finally admitted to himself he was in serious trouble. No way of knowing where to head, no means of retreat, the cold penetrating him despite the effort of trudging through the snow. He tried to formulate a plan, drawing on his Army survival training, but his brain felt sluggish. He was alone and lost; his anger and impetuosity had left him hopelessly ill-prepared for the extreme weather. _You think you can protect him?_ he thought bitterly. _You can't even protect yourself._

The wind was howling around the pines, and the sound increased his confusion. The roaring trees sounded like jet engines or locomotives, and the sharp sound of metal hitting metal seemed woven into the thrashing of the branches. There was a weird fascination to it. In his failing concentration, he allowed his hearing to intensify wildly. He could make out higher notes, too, in the cacophony. He imagined people shouting; yelling at him for being such a goddamn fool, at being no help whatsoever, to anyone…

People shouting; no, it was one voice, rising and fading as the wind gusted around. 

 

_"Help! Help! Help me! Anyone out there? Anyone at all? Please, help me!"_

Jim got to his feet, a new strength running through him. He tuned into the voice; _quickly, quickly, before it stops!_ he told himself. It was a radiowave, and he was the Radar. It was a beacon and, even when it faded, Jim knew exactly where to head.

* * *

Blair could hardly believe the sound of boots on the cabin steps, but once he heard them, he knew with absolute certainty that they belonged to Jim Ellison. The cabin door burst open, and something resembling the Abominable Snowman stumbled in and made a bee-line for Blair, huddled by the cold radiator.

"Jim!" was all he managed to get out before he was enveloped in a bear-hug, and Jim was speaking to him urgently.

"Oh, Chief, thank God! Are you okay? Did she hurt you? Are you injured? C'mon, buddy, talk to me!"

"Nnnno," shivered Blair, missing Jim the moment he let go and started chafing Blair's arms. "Just so cold, so cold…"

"S'okay, buddy, s'okay. Let me get these chains off you, and then we'll get you warmed up. Me, too, huh?"

The kindling axe made short work of the padlock. A few minutes later, and not without some trepidation on Blair's part, he had forced his hands either side of a block of firewood, and the axe came down again, this time to sever the handcuffs. Jim helped Blair to his feet and started moving him around the cabin to get his circulation going again. They clung to each other as they stumbled in an awkward kind of waltz, their mingled breath a huge cloud of mist in the blue glow of the room.

"Think you can do this on your own, Chief?" asked Jim, after a while. "I'll get a fire started."

Blair walked with increasing confidence, wrapped now in one of Jim's thermal blankets from the rucksack, and munching a cereal bar. As soon as he felt strong enough, he picked up his hated bucket and slung it out of the cabin door, as far as he could into the forest. Jim gave him a look, but said nothing.

By this time, Jim had got the kindling lit, and the logs in the grate were beginning to burn with most welcome yellow flames. The light filled the room, and Blair felt relief and happiness flood through him. He wasn't going to die after all, neither of them were. 

Together, they dragged the mattresses and bedding from the bedroom into the living area, and arranged it all in front the fire. Blair knelt with pleasure in front of the flames, feeling the warmth seep into him. 

He could hear Jim crashing around a little in the adjoining room and shortly Jim appeared with the spirit stove that Brenda had been using, together with soup cans, plates, mugs, and a polythene bag of supermarket bread. They set to work to produce a meal, and as soon as the soup was heated, Jim filled a pan with snow and put it on the stove to melt for drinking water, as all the plumbing was frozen.

Once they started to eat the hot food, the urgency of getting themselves organised faded, and they began to talk. At first, the topic was Brenda Clowes; Blair told Jim about his abduction, and what had happened in the three days. Jim was quiet and sympathetic, and made it clear that he thought Blair had done exactly the right thing in his approach to Brenda.

"She was unbalanced, Chief," he said heavily. "She could have just as easily shot you dead that day. Thank God, she didn’t. You were right not to antagonise her."

Then Jim told Blair his story, starting with finding Blair and working backwards. Blair found this approach slightly odd, though as he sipped his second helping of soup and felt the fire's warmth all around him, he was happy to just listen. But as it went on, Jim's story became somewhat more hesitant. Eventually Jim spoke about finding the Volvo, and the assumption of Blair's death, and Blair felt the sadness well up inside him as he gazed at Jim's tortured face, golden in the firelight. He gathered the blankets and moved up against Jim's side in silent support. Jim wrapped his arms around Blair, and they sat comfortably in that embrace while Jim told the end of his story.

"I should have listened to you, Chief. I didn’t give you a chance to explain. I always expect people to let me down, so I don’t give them the chance… I aim to let them down first. Pathetic, huh?"

"Jim, Jim, look at me. So caught up in my own interests, in my obsession about Sentinels, I didn’t take the time to talk to you about the commitments I had. It's true I was always going to stay with you, but I should have told you sooner, should have made things clearer. I'm just as at fault. And hey, you saved my life! You’re a hero!" Jim chuckled wryly.

"You think you're special, huh? Blair, you saved _my_ life tonight. I was completely lost out there. If you hadn't called out, I would've lain there and frozen to death. So I owe _you_. But you know what? You saved me, the moment you agreed to help me with my senses. I'd be lost for the rest of my life without you. You're the real hero, here."

They sat in silence for a while. Eventually Blair spoke.

"I thought to myself, if I ever saw you again I would ask you to reconsider. Ask that we could maybe start over…." He let his voice trail away, and felt Jim give a huge sigh.

"Chief, nothing would please me more. And I've been thinking about something as well. I hate that place you live in. It's cold, it’s dangerous. I've got some space in the Loft. Why don't you move in there, until we sort out what's best for us both to do, where we should live?"

Blair twisted his head to smile at Jim.

" _'We'_ , huh?"

"Better get used to it, Sandburg," replied Jim smugly. "Better get used to it."

_~fin~_

 

A/N: The drabble prompts are as follows –  
Part 1: Sleigh; Part 2: Peace; Part 3: December holiday/religious celebration (in this case, Bodhi Day); Part 4: Cookies; Part 5: Snow 'shape'; Part 6: National Guard Birthday; Part7: Hanukkah; Part 8: Mrs Claus; Part 9: Holiday Party; Part10: Christmas ornament/bauble; Part11: Gift; Part12: Solstice; Part 13: Family and/or Friends; Part14: Christmas Eve; Part15: Extravaganza ficlet; Part16: Extravaganza ficlet.


End file.
